Where the Shadows Fall and the Shepherd Feeds

Some moments in life hit us like a riptide--

grief, conflict, fear, exhaustion, and even news cycles,

—and suddenly everything feels foggy.

When that happens, most of us pray from panic, not clarity.

But in Mark 6, we receive an anchored pattern:

Clear vision → Clear prayer → The next step.

Mark helps us see the world as it is, s

o we can pray as we ought, s

o we can walk where God is leading.

And he does it by placing two tables—two feasts—side by side.

The Feast of Death (and Why Mark Breaks the Timeline)

Before Jesus feeds the five thousand, Mark deliberately interrupts the story.

He takes us into Herod’s birthday ballroom—

a grotesque feast built on appetite, performance, sexualized power, and state-sanctioned violence.

It is a feast of death,

the natural fruit of a system addicted to image, fear, consumption, and control.

Leaders are entranced by image, children are exploited, truth is suppressed because it’s inconvenient, public performance is prioritized over justice.

Herod is not an ignorant monster. He knows the truth.

And yet he chooses power, fear, and performance over righteousness.

Mark wants us to look at this honestly.

This is the world as it is.

The feast of death.

But he doesn’t leave us there.

The Feast of Life (and the Compassionate Gaze)

When the story shifts back to Jesus, the contrast is overwhelming.

Sure, the disciples return exhausted.

Yes, the crowds press in.

Everyone is overwhelmed.

But then:

“Jesus saw them and had compassion.”

The word is splachna—gut-turned, stomach-flipped tenderness.

The love you feel when a toddler wobbles toward you,

when an old friend embraces you,

when someone you love sing out of tune, adorably.

A love that aches.

Jesus looks at these confused, demanding, needy people

not with suspicion,

not with irritation,

but with gut-turning love.

Compassion.

And in that moment—

in the shadow of Herod’s violence,

under the threat of death—

Jesus begins to live out Psalm 23:

• He leads them beside the water.

• He makes them lie down on the green grass.

• He guides them with the Shepherd’s heart.

• He sets a table before them while danger is still near.

• And he fills the overflowing cup so full it intoxicates—rewriting their sense of reality.

This is the feast of life.

And it happens inside the crisis.

Not after the danger is gone,

but while fear is still very real.

Because God’s kingdom does not wait for systems to improve.

It arrives inside violent systems—

not because they get better,

but because God’s love outlasts them.

What We Do When We Don’t Know What to Do

I love this moment in the story:

“They gathered what they could and brought it to Jesus.”

They didn’t explain it.

They didn’t multiply it.

They didn’t control the outcome.

They simply brought what they had.

This is the pattern for overwhelmed people:

1. See clearly — name the feast of death and the feast of life.

2. Pray honestly — not with panic, but under the compassionate gaze.

3. Take the next step — gather what you have and bring it to Jesus.

That’s praying what we live, and living what we pray.

That’s wisdom.

That’s the Shepherd’s way.

When You’re Overwhelmed Today

We are surrounded by modern Herodian feasts—

performative power, anxious politics, violence normalized, children harmed, appetites weaponized.

If we stare at that long enough,

we forget who we are.

Mark says:

Remember the other table.

Remember which feast you actually belong to.

Remember how the Shepherd looks at you—visceral, tender, full of compassionate affection.

Let yourself be served.

Gather what you can.

Hand it all over—loaves, fears, anxieties, scarcity, exhaustion.

And watch what multiplies.

A Final Word

When we are overwhelmed,

clear vision leads to clear prayer,

and clear prayer reveals the next step.

We don’t need to be strong.

We need to be shepherded.

Grace and peace,

John